


Specific Performance

by BurntWhisper



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Adult! Alex, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Consensual Non-Consent, Contractual bonuses, Gentleman's Agreement verse, Goodbye presents, Light Bondage, M/M, Rough Sex, Yassen Gregorovich Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurntWhisper/pseuds/BurntWhisper
Summary: The mutual agreement not to kill one another works just fine. Until it doesn't.Scorpia decides that Alex Rider has become too much of an inconvenience, and sends Yassen Gregorovich to sort the problem out. Faced with two conflicting contracts, Yassen decides which takes priority. But not without Alex demanding recompense.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 7
Kudos: 136





	Specific Performance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victoryhonorfame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoryhonorfame/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Gentleman’s Agreement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422646) by [Valaks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valaks/pseuds/Valaks). 



> This was written for the lovely victoryhonorfame as a study incentive. I hope the studying was worth it.
> 
> Many thanks to Valaks for creating sandpits that I can play in, for giving permission for this to be published, and being a generally all-round wonderful human being.
> 
> This work has been posted under a pseudonym (though it will no doubt be apparent to some who the "real" author is on account of previously-published excerpts). Please respect the author's privacy in the comments.
> 
> Please respect the rating.

* * *

Alex Rider had become a liability. 

To Scorpia, primarily. But also to Yassen himself. 

Crucially, it was the two interacting that was the problem.

The tacit gentlemen’s agreement, accord, truce - whatever label one chose to ascribe to it - had worked just fine at first. Alex was sixteen. He survived mostly on luck and spontaneous ingenuity, and the rest of the time because Yassen didn’t kill children unless it was unavoidable. And with Alex, it had always, somehow, been avoidable.

Alex Rider at twenty-four was something else. Gone were the days when Alex had to rely on a handful of laughable gadgets and his age to survive whatever hellish situation MI6 had landed him in. Alex grown-up was a lethal force to be reckoned with. Oh yes, luck and spontaneous ingenuity still played their part; it was just that Alex seemed to be luckier and more ingenious than most. Yassen had seen Alex Rider take apart in hours plans that had been years in the making. More of Scorpia’s operations had fallen apart because of Alex Rider than most of MI6 put together.

That was why he had to go.

Getting rid of Alex wasn’t a new aspiration, of course - Scorpia had given Yassen explicit instructions some time ago that if he ever came face to face with Alex Rider, he was to shoot him at once, no questions asked. One way or another Yassen always managed to avoid the condition for that order being engaged. At one time he had seen and spoken to Alex on a semi-regular basis - had probably, even been responsible for making Alex at least some of the threat he was now; but that fell away once he had Scorpia’s orders. If he knew Alex was in the area, he simply avoided him - it was as though Yassen had a sort of sixth sense for him, hyper-conscious of where he was when he was close by. Thus, for a significant part of the last three or four years, he had caught no more than fleeting glimpses of Alex, usually as he ducked out of whatever havoc he’d just created: a flash of fair hair ( _th_ _e sort Yassen could grip hard on and yank back, he sometimes thought);_ the silhouette of a tall, lean figure ( _hips Yassen had thought about seizing and flipping over when he permitted himself to dwell on it);_ occasionally, if he got too close, brown eyes lit up in amusement as if he knew exactly the trouble he’d caused ( _eyes Yassen wanted to watch squeeze shut as Alex Rider shuddered under his touch)._

But there had been too many times Yassen had allowed that to happen now, whilst Alex became ever more dangerous.

Or so Scorpia perceived it, anyway. For his part, Yassen wasn’t sure whom his unspoken agreement with Alex favoured more. He knew that, as per its terms, he was only alive because Alex did not directly target him. Once upon a time Alex could not have hoped to outmatch Yassen, but Yassen was all too aware these days that Alex had been doing this job for a decade now and that he was _good_ at it. Scrappy in some ways, perhaps - but for every chance Yassen had had to kill Alex ( _and then some_ ), Alex could have done the same to him in equal measure, and had chosen not to.

Yassen wondered if MI6 suspected anything. He imagined it was difficult to fault the job Alex did, and yet Alex had turned up on too many of Yassen’s jobs for it comfortably to be called a coincidence any longer. Either MI6 were testing Alex because they suspected an unwillingness to kill Yassen - perhaps even some sort of conspiracy between them - or they had realised that Yassen would always spare Alex Rider if he possibly could.

Scorpia had realised it too.

Not fully. If they had, Yassen would already be dead: a compromised operative was worthless; Scorpia only had use for agents which were utterly merciless and without qualms. But they suspected. It was the only possible reason that it was Yassen - rather than a less senior operative who would have been very substantially cheaper - who they had sent to dispose of Alex Rider once and for all. 

Yassen knew this as he watched Alex through the scope of his sniper rifle. Alex was not a person for which it was easy to find a suitable time and place to set up a sniping position. He had little by way of regular routine, and it had taken days of tailing for Yassen to find this spot, which had been chosen entirely opportunistically since it was the first time Alex had been here. It was a building which overlooked a cafe. Alex was sitting outside the cafe at one of the small tables, waiting for someone - Yassen suspected Sabina Pleasure, who was in town. She hadn’t arrived yet. To anyone passing by, Alex looked perfectly at ease, but Yassen knew he was anything but. The scope missed nothing: the hard set to Alex’s thin mouth; the slight flutter of tension along the muscles of his defined jaw; the throb of his heartbeat against the skin of that slender throat.

The thought of what it would be like to suck on that skin had entered Yassen’s mind before he could stop it. Annoyed, he pushed it away and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

Yassen was aiming directly at Alex’s forehead. Those were his orders. Scorpia had tried to shoot Alex Rider in the heart once before. This time they weren’t taking any chances. Speaking objectively, it was the right decision. It was perhaps only because Yassen knew Alex’s frame so well that he could pick out the ballistic vest Alex was wearing. A bullet to the chest might injure him. It wouldn’t kill him.

If that was what Yassen wanted to do.

He had been sat in this position for at least three minutes now. He should have done it as soon as the opportunity had presented itself. If Scorpia had anyone watching, Yassen’s hesitation would only fuel their doubts. Yassen might have already lost the opportunity to convince them otherwise. 

His finger twitched a fraction on the trigger.

And then Alex looked at him.

Yassen didn’t know how he’d done it. Alex had been glancing around at ground level, and then his gaze had suddenly shifted upwards and he’d found Yassen at once. He must have known he was there the entire time; must have been aware of Yassen having tailed him. Yassen shouldn’t have been surprised, and yet he was. Alex always seemed to be able to pick him out wherever he was. Perhaps he had the same, hypersensitive awareness for Yassen’s presence as Yassen did for his.

Any other agent might have dived for cover - tried to get inside - if faced with the long end of a sniper scope. Not Alex Rider. He sat there, calm and unperturbed, waiting for Yassen to shoot him.

But watching him. He was willing to sit there and die, but he was going to make Yassen look into his eyes while he did it. Yassen didn’t doubt that Alex knew exactly what he was doing. 

The main problem was that Yassen could drown in those eyes if he let himself.

They sat there for at least another minute watching one another, before Yassen tore his gaze away from the scope. He hesitated a minute more, lips pressed together as he studied the blank wall beside the window, wondering if he could persuade himself to do it after all. He had killed so many people. He wasn’t even sure how many. What was one more, really?

But it wasn’t just one more. It was _Alex._

Resigned, he began to pack the rifle away. 

* * *

That night, Yassen made his way to Chelsea.

He had never actually been into Alex’s house. He had considered breaking in twice before. The first had been directly after the first time they had met - a decade ago now, after the Stormbreaker operation; the first time he had been ordered by Scorpia to kill Alex. The second had been a few months later, after Yassen had heard that Alex had somehow been responsible for the avoidance of nuclear holocaust in Murmask and he had considered - briefly, but seriously - accosting Alex in the dead of night to whisk him away to Scorpia, where under Yassen’s supervision he might have a rather better chance of surviving.

How different things might have been.

Alex still lived in the home that Ian Rider had left him - a white terraced house with a wrought iron gate. A sensible house for a spy - not too many entry points or angles from which to approach. The windows were panelled sash windows - difficult to break cleanly - and locked. If Yassen wanted to get in, it would be via the front or back door. Getting in via the back would require scaling the ten-foot high garden wall, but was less likely to be alarmed than the front, so Yassen opted for that. 

In fact, the house wasn’t alarmed at all. Yassen was surprised about that - even more so when he discovered that there was an alarm system, but it hadn’t been switched on. Careless - not like Alex. Or maybe it was deliberate. The thought made Yassen wary. He was confident Alex wasn’t home, but if he knew that Yassen had been tailing him, had he tipped off MI6, asked for extra security? 

On reflection, Yassen thought not. Alex had had scores of opportunities in the past to call in backup if he felt he needed protection from Yassen. He had never taken any of them.

Still, Yassen turned on none of the lights, preferring the protection of darkness. He moved silently through the house, taking in the modern kitchen with its granite worktop, the grey living room, the wide staircase with its twisting banisters, leading upstairs. 

There were three bedrooms on the first floor. Two of them were plainly inhabited on a regular basis. Alex lived with Tom Harris, who had moved in at some stage after they’d left school, but he was away visiting his brother (Yassen had already made sure of that). It wasn’t difficult to guess which room belonged to Harris: aside from the photographs blue-tacked to the walls of him and his brother in various places around the world, he had taken up a physiotherapy course recently and in amongst the devastation of the unmade bed and piles of clothes were textbooks and essay papers scattered haphazardly around the room. 

The other room, at the back of the house, away from the street, was much tidier. It was the largest, and Yassen guessed it had previously been Ian Rider’s room. But he knew that it was Alex’s because there were three photographs on the bedside table furthest from the door. Yassen picked them up in turn, examining them in the strange half-light that was seeping in from outside. One was of Ian Rider. Another was of that housekeeper he had had - Jack Starbright. The last was of John and Helen Rider. Yassen lingered over the last photograph, and in particular at the picture of the man he had once known as Hunter. In one sense, Alex was a lot like his father. Certainly they looked similar, though Alex’s face was thinner; he had a leaner build. But in another sense, Alex wasn’t like John Rider at all: he was less ruthless, perhaps more willing to take risks to achieve an outcome he viewed as more desirable. No, that was unfair: Hunter had taken a huge risk in order to save Yassen’s life. But Alex was warmer than Hunter somehow, less hardened. More willing to spare people. 

John Rider would never have reached the strange sort of truce Yassen and Alex had. He would have captured him to deliver him to MI6; and if that weren’t possible, he would have killed him simply because he was the enemy.

Yassen had looked up to John, but sometimes he wondered if Alex wasn't more likable in a lot of ways.

He replaced the photograph again. It was really no wonder he hadn’t been able to pull the trigger that afternoon. He had allowed Alex Rider to become everything that Hunter had very specifically told Yassen a target couldn’t be. Yassen knew him. More than that. Yassen did not permit himself to admit to caring about very much, other than his reputation, but Alex Rider had, somehow, stolen his way onto that list.

Very dangerous. Not that it mattered now.

Yassen permitted himself to examine the rest of the room. Despite the size of the room, it had been given a more intimate feeling by the deep colour of the walls - grey in the washed out colour of the evening light, but Yassen suspected blue in reality. Possibly deliberately chosen to induce calm. The bed, in the centre of the room, was a king, with a large headboard and footboard. It looked relatively new; Yassen suspected that it hadn’t been inherited from Ian Rider. It seemed like an odd indulgence, but perhaps it was not - Alex kept himself together extremely well in the field these days, but Yassen could imagine him coming in after a gruelling operation and collapsing face first onto the bed, not caring whether he was the right way up or not. There were two silk ties lying over the footboard of the bed, and for a moment, Yassen was amused, thinking of Alex wearing them. Certainly he never seemed to bother when he went to work, usually favouring just a shirt, or sometimes a t-shirt and sweater, as far as Yassen had seen.

An armchair was in the corner of the room, next to the window, and it was there that Yassen sat, crossing his ankle over his knee. There was a short-range handgun in his belt, but he didn’t move to get it out, even a short time later when he heard the gate creak outside, footsteps on the path, and then the front door open.

It was Alex. Of that Yassen was absolutely certain - not just because he knew Harris was away, but because of the long silence that followed the front door being closed. The house remained dark; no lights were switched on. No footsteps. Alex was standing and listening. He knew that there was someone in the house.

Yassen waited.

Eventually there were footsteps on the stairs - perhaps Alex had, very quietly, already scouted the downstairs rooms, or perhaps he had already guessed who it was, and where he was, because at the top of the stairs the footsteps immediately travelled down the landing to the room where Yassen was sitting.

Alex’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. He was holding a gun - a Glock, Yassen recognised it as. The sort that it was nearly impossible to accidentally discharge. The sort of gun MI6 tended to issue its agents.

Yassen was sitting near the window, where he thought his face could just about be seen in the dim light. In any case, however, Yassen was sure that Alex would be under no illusions about who it was. Yassen would have been able to pick out Alex’s profile from a crowd of a hundred without any difficulty whatsoever.

A split second. Then Alex lowered the gun. 

Yassen remained where he was. Alex walked towards the bed and pulled at the switch of a tall standing lamp next to the bedside table. 

The room was at once bathed in a warm glow, and Yassen could at last see Alex’s face. He didn’t look as though he was going to react immediately; his face was impassive. Yassen felt a brief twitch of pride. It had been his downfall, ultimately, but he’d taught Alex Rider well. 

Alex merely stood next to the bed, watching Yassen as if waiting for him to speak. 

“I thought we were avoiding each other,” he finally said when Yassen said nothing. “I thought you had orders to shoot me on sight.”

It didn’t surprise Yassen that Alex knew this. MI6 had its blind spots, but its intelligence tended to be good, especially when it came to Scorpia. There was probably a deep cover agent, the new John Rider buried somewhere in the Scorpia ranks, who had supplied the information.

Someone else’s problem now.

“Rather more specific than that,” Yassen said. “I’ve been sent to kill you.”

Alex’s expression was difficult to read - perhaps a mixture of surprise and...smugness? Yassen was sure he saw the hint of a grin teasing at the corner of Alex’s lips. At that moment, he realised that, however lethal Alex was, how seriously he took his job in all other respects, he _enjoyed_ this... thing that had grown between them. _Game_ was the word that immediately, inexplicably sprung to mind. 

“And is that what you’re here to do?” Alex asked. His voice sounded curious rather than afraid. But Yassen had noted that Alex hadn’t dropped the Glock or put it away. On the other hand, he hadn’t raised it either, and Yassen very much doubted Alex would be able to bring himself to shoot him. He was under no illusions about which of them was the colder man, and it certainly wasn’t Alex.

Yassen paused. There were, of course, at least two dozen different ways he could kill Alex even without drawing his gun. Getting close enough was an issue, but it wasn’t that that had stopped him so far. It was the knowledge of what came next. It had come as a surprise to him - he hadn’t been sure he had many morals left - but Yassen knew, instinctively, that killing Alex Rider would hang over him for the rest of his life.

“No,” he said.

Alex raised his chin a little - perhaps assessing him, perhaps in defiance.

“They’ll kill you if you don’t,” he said.

No need to specify who _they_ were. 

“Yes,” Yassen agreed. “If they can catch me.”

Another assessing look. “You’re going on the run.”

“Retiring.”

Alex snorted, just lightly, and Yassen had to agree. A lifetime of watching one’s back wasn’t much of a retirement. But, then, Yassen had already spent the better part of twenty-five years having to look over his shoulder at every turn. It was second nature to him now. And he knew where to hide - where he might be able to relax, if only marginally.

“So this is a goodbye,” said Alex at last. 

“It’s a goodbye,” Yassen confirmed. Despite his words, he didn’t move. For a very long minute, Alex didn’t either. They were both motionless, watching one another, wondering - at least in Yassen’s case - if this would be the last time they would ever see one another.

Then Alex threw the Glock onto the bed. 

“What’s my going away present, then?” he asked.

His eyes, warm brown in the light of the lamp, were fixed on Yassen. There seemed to be a challenge there. Yassen was still, trying to work out if he was understanding Alex correctly. It was several seconds before he spoke.

“Your going away present,” he repeated. Alex must have heard the pinch of amusement in his tone, because his mouth was threatening to pull into a smirk again. It was difficult not to be drawn in. “I’m the one going away. You should be giving me the present, surely?”

Alex raised a single eyebrow. Yassen was sure that there was no mistaking the meaning this time. 

_Why don’t you come and get it, then?_

Yassen considered the prospect without any outward reaction. The invitation was, he was prepared to admit, not entirely unexpected. Even hoped for. But it did cross a line Yassen had never fully allowed himself to contemplate crossing. It had always been insanity to contemplate. At first because Yassen hadn’t been interested - Alex was too young; it hadn’t even crossed his mind. Then, later, as Alex reached adulthood and Yassen _did_ become interested, because it was far too dangerous for both of them. Perhaps, he wondered, Alex had come to precisely the same conclusions: he had not made the suggestion before, not for want of interest, but because of an interest in preserving the safety of both of them.

But now. Now Yassen was retiring; leaving. 

And Alex Rider, the reason for his departure, was standing in his bedroom, disarmed, wearing a smirk and a raised eyebrow, _inviting_ him.

Yassen was a man of strong will, but he thought he could be forgiven, in the circumstances, for concluding that it wasn’t inviolable.

_A gentlemen’s agreement, indeed._

He stood up. Took several steps towards Alex. The latter stayed where he was. 

So did the smirk.

Yassen would have to do something about that.

He halted in front of Alex. They were barely a foot apart, and Yassen reflected that it had been years since he’d got this close - more than fleetingly, anyway. Perhaps it was the closest they had ever been. Alex’s strong jawline was mere inches away - Yassen could have reached out and stroked it with the back of his hand if he’d wanted to. It felt surreal. Alex’s expression hadn’t changed, but Yassen saw the Adam’s apple in his throat move up and down as he swallowed. Excitement? Nervousness? Yassen paid it no mind. He was curious as to what Alex expected to happen next. 

Alex wasn’t like other men he had been with. He’d bedded enough of them - and younger men too, but they were always desperate to please him, fumbling with their buttons as soon as possible as if the sight of their naked bodies might impress him, almost begging to go down on Yassen as if it was a privilege. 

Not Alex. He stayed absolutely still, like he was waiting for Yassen to take what he wanted.

Yassen felt an unusual thrill of anticipation.

“Shoes and socks?” Alex asked at last.

Yassen nodded once. Alex bent down slowly. The trust Alex placed in him by doing so wasn’t lost on Yassen. Upright, face to face, Alex perhaps had a decent chance at beating him. On one knee, whilst Yassen stood over him, Alex was in much the worse position. He wouldn’t be able to see any attack coming, and he would be in a poor position from which to fight it off. Yassen could kill him long before he’d managed to get onto an even footing.

Yassen didn’t move - not quite backing off but not giving any other cause for alarm either. After a minute, Alex stood up again, now barefoot. Yassen noticed his hair was slightly damp - perhaps he had gone to the gym before coming home. Yassen even thought, at this proximity, that he might be able to smell the faint scent of recent shower gel.

Alex was wearing a white shirt, the top button already undone. Yassen reached out a hand. His movements were measured, and Alex didn’t jerk away. Yassen undid the second button, and then the third. Alex simply watched him, even as Yassen reached down, untucked the shirt from Alex’s trousers, and came up with a knife that had been hidden away near Alex’s belt. The knife was carefully placed on the nearest bedside table - the one without any photographs - before Yassen finished with Alex’s remaining buttons and the shirt fell open.

The white made a pleasing contrast with the unexpectedly tanned skin underneath. Admittedly it had not been all that long ago that Yassen had seen Alex in the Mediterranean, but Alex had evidently had rather more time for sunbathing than Yassen had (somewhat irritating, given that Alex had blown that operation wide open). Alex made no move to shrug the shirt off, and it was Yassen who, after another second’s pause, slipped it down Alex’s shoulders. If Alex intended for it to feel as though he was unwrapping a gift, it certainly felt a little like it. He tugged the garment over Alex’s wrists and let it fall to the floor.

Alex might have been more slender than his father had been, but he was no less strong for it; he was built like Yassen - lean and tight, with hard muscles that screeched of hours of training. Under the tan, he had odd scars littered here and there in exactly the way Yassen did - unavoidable accidents that left red, and later white, lines and marks that would never fully disappear. Yassen was unfazed. He glanced at the bullet scar above Alex’s heart only briefly. That one had been close - _too close_ : Yassen could tell by looking at it. A reminder of what was at stake.

Alex remained still, letting Yassen appraise him. Oddly, despite the fact that Alex himself had thrown away his gun, and Yassen had removed his knife, and despite the fact that Alex must have known that Yassen was carrying weapons, Alex made no move to disarm him. Another offer of trust. Or perhaps he was aware that at this proximity Yassen was more likely to snap his neck than to shoot or stab him. It would certainly be quicker. Possibly more merciful. To underline the point, Yassen reached out to run a finger down Alex’s throat - the same line of skin he’d fantasised about only earlier that day. Alex shivered, seemingly unable to help himself, and Yassen had to suppress a smile.

Alex’s trousers sat just under his hips; a tantalising line of hair trailed from his belly button and disappeared below the line of his belt. Yassen made quick work of the latter, unbuckling it with one hand and then unzipping Alex’s trousers. If Alex was perturbed that Yassen seemed to want him naked without any reciprocation, he didn’t show it. Yassen had the strong sense that Alex didn’t mind if Yassen took the lead entirely. 

That was just fine.

“Take them off,” he said. His voice was even, but it didn’t leave much room for disagreement.

Alex hesitated for perhaps a second, and then slowly pushed off his trousers, stepping out of leg one at a time. He was wearing loose-fitting black boxers, sitting low the way his trousers had. Yassen could see he was already slightly hard, the thin material raised just a little outwards.

“Underwear too,” Yassen said coolly. “Then bend over the end of the bed.”

It was a much bigger ask than what had preceded it. They both knew it. Alex didn’t move to do as he’d been told; perhaps whatever compliance he had been channelling had dried up. Instead, the flickering of a smirk was back. 

“Why don’t you make me,” he said. 

Definitely a far cry from what Yassen was used to. Alex was going to make him work for it. But it wasn’t necessarily unwelcome. If some of Alex’s rebellious streak were to come out in the bedroom - well, Yassen could think of worse things. 

He waited a few heartbeats to compose himself before he answered.

“Are you sure you want to extend that invitation?”

Yassen would have no issue with exerting control, if that was what Alex wanted. But they both knew that Yassen was utterly ruthless. If he was being invited to make Alex do as he asked, there was no question that he _would_ make Alex do it.

Alex’s expression was goading - watching, waiting to see what Yassen would do next. 

Yassen reached out again and placed a hand on his shoulder. Alex didn’t flinch, but as Yassen walked around him to his back, using his hand as a pivot, he felt a twitch in Alex’s muscles - perhaps an involuntary wariness of having Yassen behind him, where he couldn’t see him. He would have to get used to that. Yassen let his hand trail from Alex’s right shoulder to his left, where it came to rest, grip firm and unrelenting.

Then, without warning, he pushed sharply forwards. It didn’t take much force - Alex wasn't too much taller than him, and he had likely caught Alex by surprise. Alex stumbled a little but righted himself before he reached the edge of the bed, coming to an abrupt halt. Yassen very deliberately pushed his shoulder forwards and down towards the bed, indicating where he expected Alex to go.

He met resistance. 

Alex was putting up a _fight._

Oh, this was _delightful._

Yassen’s response was to give a harder shove, at the same time pressing the toe of his shoe against the back of Alex’s knee. Alex folded like a deck of cards, his top half tipping over the mattress, his knees giving way underneath him. At once he tried to shift - maybe to get more comfortable, maybe to struggle - but Yassen was already on top of him, knee pressed into the middle of his back, the other hand reaching for the ties at the end of the bed. 

“Going to wrap me up like a present now?” Alex asked, as Yassen yanked the tie around his wrists. Yassen suspected the ironic tone was intended to cover any hesitation he might have felt at the thought of letting a Scorpia assassin bind his hands together. 

“I suggest you watch your mouth,” Yassen advised him, using the second tie to do a second, tighter knot for added security. Alex’s wrists bound in front of him, Yassen reached down and tugged down Alex’s underwear. It was awkward one handed, and once the boxers were mid-way down Alex’s thighs, Yassen had to snap Alex’s hips back to straighten his legs in order to pull them down the rest of the way. Alex did, at least, deign to help by stepping out of them, before Yassen yanked him sharply back up into a standing position. Alex was still for a minute - perhaps having second thoughts about what he’d got himself into. Then he glanced at Yassen over his shoulder.

“Or what?” he said.

Yassen didn’t immediately react. But a second later he struck so quickly Alex probably could not have fought him even if he’d tried: grabbing Alex by the back of the neck, he jerked him forward, skirting him around the edge of the bed and then shoving his top half roughly over the footboard. Likely the board would dig into his stomach, and Yassen’s hand moved to the space between Alex’s shoulder blades, pushing him down. He wanted Alex slightly uncomfortable, wanted to remind him that he had chosen to play with fire. 

Now firmly in charge, Yassen could assess what he was working with. 

He ran a hand down Alex’s right buttock, feeling the muscle in it. He was already wondering if he wasn’t somehow doing himself further damage by engaging in this. Though it was probably rather too late for that. And he couldn’t deny that this was the rarest of indulgences. He had Alex Rider absolutely under his control. Experimentally, he used his thumb and fingers to separate left cheek from right, and heard Alex’s breath hitch. 

“Experience?” Yassen asked.

A pause. “A few times,” came the response.

The slap that followed was sharp and without warning. Alex let out a hiss. 

“Try again,” Yassen said.

There was silence. Yassen suspected it was deliberate. 

He almost smiled.

The next slap was harder and in exactly the same spot, leaving a pink streak down Alex’s backside. It had to have hurt, even if Alex had a high tolerance for pain, and Yassen was rewarded with a breathy gasp. Not an answer, though. He moved his left hand lower on Alex’s back to give himself better leverage, and delivered a third slap, so hard that made even his palm smart. This time Alex let out a slightly choked noise. Yassen wondered if anyone had ever hit him during sex. 

“Do you want to answer again?” he asked calmly. “I asked you about your experience.”

It was another heartbeat before Yassen received an answer, and Alex’s voice was thready when he spoke. “A few times... _sir_.” 

Yassen had to pause to let out a silent, steadying breath of his own. Eking out honorifics from Alex Rider could easily become addictive, he thought. He felt a little giddy, as if high. 

It was several long seconds before he could concentrate on Alex’s answer. _A few times._ That was good. Yassen wouldn’t need to be too gentle.

Perhaps Alex sensed Yassen’s intentions, because he was tense under Yassen’s hold. That wouldn’t last - whatever fight and show of resentment Alex was giving him now, Yassen had plans to undo it all. 

Feeling the taut muscle underneath him grounded Yassen, somehow; helped him to focus.

“Lubricant?” he asked curtly.

“Right bedside table drawer. _Sir_ ,” came the addition after another stinging slap. It sounded like it was delivered through clenched teeth. 

Yassen released his hold on Alex, and went to where Alex had indicated. He found the tube of lubricant in the top drawer, next to a small pile of condoms. Yassen took one of those too and closed the drawer again, turning back to Alex. He hadn’t moved - except possibly to adjust his brace position against the footboard; Yassen could see red marks in his skin where he’d shifted.

Spreading the lubricant over two fingers of his right hand, Yassen returned to the foot of the bed. He wiped his left hand on his jeans and then replaced it on Alex’s back, pushing him down with the lightest pressure. He didn’t need any more than that; Alex’s backside was already placed at a pleasing angle that allowed Yassen to see exactly what he was doing.

“I thought this was supposed to be _your_ present, you said,” Alex said. He sounded less breathless again; the brief respite had allowed him to regain some control.

Yassen let the cheek slide as he trailed his finger down the base of Alex’s spine and towards its target. “What makes you think that this isn’t a gift for me?” he asked. His index finger found the entrance it had been looking for and he pushed forward. He wasn’t very forceful about it, but Alex still sucked in an audible breath, and Yassen felt him tense. Surprising, given Alex’s claim to experience - he should have known to relax. But maybe it was to be expected. The level of trust Alex had placed in him that evening was already unheralded, and there was bound to be something particularly unnerving about an experienced assassin sticking his fingers inside him. 

Yassen just needed to help him forget that. Or work it to his advantage, perhaps.

“I’m going to take you here, Alex,” he said softly, without moving his finger. “I’m going to fuck you until you’re begging for mercy.”

It wasn’t the sort of talk that always worked, but Yassen had the sense that Alex would respond to it. Sure enough, Alex let out a shuddering breath, and Yassen felt him relax around his finger. He pushed it further forward. He heard Alex inhale again, but he sounded calm enough; he wasn’t coming undone yet. 

All in good time.

Yassen took out his finger to replace it with two, driving forward less carefully. That earned him a low level moan Yassen felt vibrate through the hand resting on Alex’s back. He allowed Alex a second or two to get used to the sensation, and himself to enjoy the view. Alex’s hands were still tied in front of him; he was bracing himself on his forearms to keep his balance. Yassen’s knuckles were resting against his backside, his fingers disappearing inside him. The whole sight was almost overwhelmingly arousing.

“What would your superiors say if they saw this, do you think?” Yassen’s tone was conversational.

There was a mumble from Alex that sounded a lot like, “ _They can fuck off._ ” 

Yassen’s lips twitched. Steadying his left hand again, he began moving his fingers in and out. It wasn’t forceful, but it was enough to make Alex’s head dip. Yassen couldn’t see his face, but imagined that he was biting the inside of his cheek, fighting to keep himself together. How much had he fantasised about this, Yassen wondered - had he been like Yassen, refusing to let himself contemplate it as more than a passing fancy, or did he linger over the idea, perhaps bracing himself against the shower wall with one hand as he stroked himself to a frenzy, imagining this very scenario? 

Yassen would not allow a frenzy now. His movements were steady; small and precise. But Alex was beginning to get impatient, his hips starting to rock back to meet Yassen’s fingers, trying and failing to get more friction, a deeper thrust. Despite his apparent desire to be controlled, Alex Rider had a complete lack of discipline, Yassen observed. If only he had had more time to rectify it. Prepared to teach at least some of the lesson now, he drew his fingers out and then thrust forward, hard, pressing up against the nub of Alex’s prostate. 

The effect was immediate: Alex very nearly _melted_ under Yassen, letting out a whimper that shot through Yassen like a drug. He could feel his own trousers shifting, and he felt impatient with himself. He’d wanted to drag this out. But it was going to be difficult. He had to take a moment to calm himself before he spoke. When he did, his voice was cool.

“If you do not behave,” he said, “I will have to be rougher.”

His fingers were still now, still pressing in that spot, but despite Yassen’s words Alex had already started to squirm. Yassen couldn’t help but be amused again. He supposed he should have anticipated it: Alex had never behaved himself, even in the face of threats of violence. He allowed himself an idle moment for how far he could push that idea; push Alex. Quite a lot, he suspected. Assassin or not, Alex was quickly losing himself. On another occasion - had there been another occasion - Yassen might have tested the boundaries. Possibly removed his belt to use if the mood took him. But there wouldn’t be a next time, and Yassen could reduce any young man to a quivering mess with his belt if he so chose. Alex Rider was something else. Yassen wanted to conquer Alex without help. He wanted it to be entirely his own work.

He drew his fingers out and buried them again. The strain in Alex’s groan was palpable. It was difficult, Yassen thought, to avoid concluding that Alex Rider was made for this. Every time Yassen brushed against his prostate, Alex’s whole body gave an involuntary jerk, ejecting a half-pained sound, and it was _beautiful_. Yassen began to thrust more forcefully, and Alex was all but collapsing against the bed, not even attempting to hide his moans.

“Is this how you like it?” Yassen asked him softly, unable to hide his curiosity. “Do you like it rough?” It was something else that he hadn’t anticipated, but maybe should have done - _Yassen_ liked it rough, and Alex had far more of an addiction to danger than he did. 

There was a brief beat before Alex replied, his voice breathy: “Yeah.” 

The punishment came swiftly and without mercy; the speed with which Yassen withdrew his finger and slapped Alex hard again, in precisely the same spot as before, produced a sharp, ejected gasp. This time Yassen gave no opportunity for correction: he delivered eight in a row, each as forceful as the last, until the cheek was bright red and his hand print was starkly visible. Alex kept it together for the first few; by the middle he was letting out choked noises again, and at the end, when Yassen at last paused, and dragged his nails over the tender skin, he actually _trembled,_ drawing his tied hands up underneath his face, and Yassen suspected that if he had not been pinning Alex down, his whole body would have lost the strength to keep him up.

But he’d got the message.

“Yes, sir,” he got out. He sounded ragged. Yassen gave him another minute, letting him come down. He even reached down and stroked his ball sac, and Alex let out another muffled whimper. He was only half hard, and Yassen went for that next, stroking up and down until Alex was fully erect again. Alex had a decent length on him, and if it had been Alex leaving, if this had been Alex’s gift, Yassen might have considered taking it in his mouth - something he rarely contemplated. 

He could hear Alex’s breathing evening out; Yassen could actually pinpoint the moment arousal overtook exertion again. Alex let out a groan as Yassen released his erection, but Yassen was already dragging him up by the shoulder. He pivoted him and pushed him roughly forwards. Alex’s hip caught the edge of the footboard and he hissed. Yassen was merciless, shoving him again so that Alex stumbled forward, until Yassen slammed him chest first in the wall. He’d already thought about taking Alex face-to-face, holding him up as he thrust into him, but the draw of dominance was proving too much. Yassen might only be there because Alex permitted it - might only be _alive_ because Alex permitted it - but the idea of pressing Alex against a wall and forcing him to take him was irresistible.

He kept Alex pinned once again using one hand, Alex’s own hands forced above his head so that they didn’t get in the way, whilst he undid his belt. Then he paused, considering his options. One was to simply draw himself out and take Alex whilst he was still half-dressed. That had the appeal of immediate gratification. But he would prefer to undress properly, to feel the heat of Alex’s body underneath his. That would require him to release Alex from his hold. But without Yassen’s firm grip, Alex might lack the suitable motivation to stay where he was. 

Perhaps he needed some persuasion.

Slowly, Yassen’s thumb moved to a small knot on the edge of Alex’s shoulder blade. He maneuvered himself into the groove he was looking for, and pressed.

Alex howled, his arms drawing into him and his knees buckling as he tried, and failed, to squirm away. Yassen had chosen one of the most painful pressure points, and the pain, although temporary, would have been excruciating. Even the light push of Yassen’s thumb was enough to make his point.

“I’m going to take my hand away,” he said, releasing the pressure so that Alex could focus on his words rather than the pain. “If you move, that is a taste of what will follow, and I will not be gentle. Do you understand?”

Alex nodded once. He was still breathing hard.

“Arms above your head, please.”

Only slightly hesitantly, Alex did as he was told, and Yassen took his hand away to undress properly. He drew out his gun and placed it on the bedside table next to Alex’s knife. He was carrying two knives - one in his belt; one strapped to his angle, and he took out both of those too, glancing at Alex for any sign of increased tension. There were none. The weapons didn’t seem to worry him. Though Alex was still pressed against the wall, he seemed to have recovered from the pain and he had turned his head to watch Yassen undress. Yassen let him. He’d been good enough to let Yassen admire him for a good while, and Yassen wasn’t an unreasonable man.

He left his clothes in a pile on the floor, stroking himself quickly to regain some of the hardness he’d lost. It wasn’t difficult, with Alex naked, hands still tied, looking over his shoulder and watching Yassen with those expressive eyes. If Yassen were a man of less control he might have groaned; as it was, he was silent as he did it, and remained so when he opened the condom and slid it on. He covered himself with lubricant, wiping his fingers on one of the tissues from the box on the bedside table. Then he turned back to Alex. He reached up, taking Alex’s wrists with his right hand, and guided himself with his left. He found the entrance - pushed the head of himself just inside. 

Then he slammed forward.

Alex’s reaction was immediate: he stiffened under Yassen, his eyes squeezing shut, a noise escaping him that was something between a gasp and a groan. Even Yassen inhaled sharply, the sensation, for a second, threatening all of his self-restraint. However he’d thought this would feel like, however high his expectations had been for Alex, the hot slickness around him and Alex’s short, pained pants from underneath him far exceeded them. Yassen had to grit his teeth in order to keep a handle on himself. He had never been so close to release with a single thrust. His left hand had settled on Alex’s hip, and he found he was gripping it tightly enough to leave a bruise. It wouldn’t do to lose control. He forced himself to exhale, slowly, slackening some of the tension in his fingers. Underneath him, Alex’s head was turned sideways so Yassen could see his face, his eyes shut, the tightness of his frown. His breathing was beginning to even out again, though as Yassen moved a fraction deeper, testing the boundaries, it hitched again.

“Yassen.” His voice came out as a groan. “ _Please_.”

Yassen hadn’t even _asked_ , hadn’t even told him, and he was _begging_ . Yassen felt giddy again; he had to hold his breath for a second just to keep himself from losing it completely. What a _waste_ the last four or so years had been, he thought. It might have been worth incurring the wrath of Scorpia, of MI6, for this. For the trembling body underneath him, the whimpers in Alex’s throat, that _frown_ \- as if Alex was simultaneously lost in pain and pleasure at once. 

“Please what?” he asked, when he had recovered enough. 

“Please - ” Yassen hadn’t given Alex a chance to finish; he’d thrust forward again, and instead of completing his sentence, Alex had let out a moan instead. 

“Please _what?_ ” Yassen repeated, his voice low and dangerous in Alex’s ear.

“I - I don’t - just - ” Alex was unravelling quickly, not helped by the fact that Yassen was still thrusting shallowly into him. “Don’t - stop. _Please_.”

Yassen wished he could have bottled the desperate, needy note in Alex’s voice and played it on repeat.

“As you wish,” he said, and then, because he wasn’t sure he could take it for much longer, starting thrusting in and out properly - harder, more quickly. He wasn’t being gentle, and Alex was crying out, his whole body jolting every time Yassen drove forward, pinned into place as Yassen took him again and again. All semblance of control was abandoned - Alex’s face was screwed up, the sounds coming out of him choked again, almost sobs. Yassen felt high on power, the feeling driving him forwards, deeper, Alex’s noises becoming more strained with every thrust.

It was impossible to last long. Yassen came first - violently with a force that sent him slamming further forwards. He just about managed to stay silent, but his teeth were clenched again, his hand gripping Alex’s hip like a vice. Alex came shortly afterwards, jerking and shuddering under him, ejecting strangled groans that would easily have sent Yassen over the edge if he hadn’t already come, and half-threatened to anyway.

They were still for several long breaths after that. Yassen waited a few seconds, until Alex had quietened, his breathing easing just marginally, before he gently braced himself against Alex’s shoulder, and, holding the condom in place, withdrew. 

Alex collapsed at the sudden release of pressure, and would have fallen had Yassen not caught him by the upper arms and steered him towards the bed. Alex fell onto it, backfirst, eyes closed, tied hands covering his face, still panting and trembling as though he might be about to break down. Yassen remained standing, peeling off the condom, wrapping it in another tissue and then using another to dab himself off. He used another two to wipe down Alex’s front. Alex didn’t move to stop him. Everything seemed to have drained out of him. 

Yassen threw the tissues in the wastepaper basket next to the door, and then returned to the bed to undo the tie around Alex’s wrists. When his hands were free, Alex simply let them fall, one elbow falling across his face as the other dropped to his side. If he thought there was any risk that Yassen might kill him after all, he was past caring. Yassen could have picked up his gun and stood there aiming it at him, and Yassen doubted that Alex would have moved. He gazed at Alex’s chest for a few long seconds, watching it lift and fall heavily, before he turned to pull on his underwear and his jeans.

“Bathroom?” he asked, for the sake of politeness, because he already knew where it was.

“Next door.”

Yassen left the room. When he returned, Alex seemed to have raised himself enough to put on his underwear, but otherwise he’d collapsed back onto the bed, returning to the same position. He wasn’t looking at Yassen, but he did speak, his voice coming out as little more than a mumble.

“Do you have to leave?”

Alex didn’t seem to care that he sounded frank. Yassen felt his amusement rise again.

“You don’t think this might be the first place they would look?” He reached down to pick up his t-shirt and pulled it on, considering. He paused, and then conceded, because there was little harm in doing so at this stage: “I won’t deny it is tempting to stay.”

He caught Alex’s lips curving up - a genuine smile, not a smirk, possibly entertained by the entire situation, possibly pleased by Yassen’s reaction.

“A good leaving present?” he asked.

“A very good one,” Yassen said.

Except for the overwhelming temptation to at least stay the night so that they could do it all over again. But Yassen knew if that happened he might never leave. Scorpia would probably barge in within twenty-fours, and put a bullet in each of them mid-fuck.

Alex’s arm fell from over his face to by his side, and he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His eyes were bright - Yassen wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him look this alive. 

“This is really it?” he asked. He seemed to realise that Yassen shouldn’t hang around.

Yassen was silent, studying him. The obvious answer was yes, and it was hanging in the air, unspoken.

Except, his brain nagged him, he wasn’t the only one in danger. Alex had become a liability to Scorpia. They’d sent Yassen, who had failed. They would send someone else. Especially when they worked out they had lost one of their senior operatives over it.

And after last time, he thought, his eyes dropping briefly to the scar on Alex’s chest, they weren’t going to be taking an unpredictable shot. 

“I know they’ll come after me,” Alex said, reading his gaze. “I’ll have to go under MI6 protection for a bit. One of their safe houses.”

It wouldn’t be enough. Scorpia would find where he was; MI6 safe houses were not so secure. Yassen himself had tracked down and killed persons supposedly safe in MI6 custody. And if they couldn’t get him there, they would come after him when he was back on duty. Scorpia were patient, and they were persistent.

He couldn’t take Alex with him. Two men travelling together from here, when Scorpia or MI6 could be watching - they would be too easily traced. On the other hand…

“You could meet me in Moscow,” he said. 

Alex lifted his eyebrows. Yassen suspected he’d managed to surprise him. Which was a feat in itself.

“What, and go on the run permanently?” he asked.

Yassen said nothing. He thought it should have been obvious that Alex might well be on the run permanently for the rest of his life, and that if he put his safety in the hands of MI6 there was a good chance he would end up the same way as his parents.

“With you,” Alex added flatly, for good measure. “A Scorpia assassin.”

Yassen could see the difficulty in logic. Going on the run from Scorpia with one of their own operatives. Except there wasn’t any chance at all that Scorpia would ever allow Yassen to return. And with both Yassen and Alex watching each other’s backs, it ought to be unlikely they would ever be found.

Yassen wondered if any of this would have occurred to him before he’d shagged Alex Rider senseless against a wall.

Alex was watching him. It was difficult to discern what he was thinking. Wondering, maybe, if he really wanted to leave his life behind. Then again, Yassen had never been sure how much Alex truly enjoyed working for MI6. At the start, he hadn’t had a choice. Yassen knew that Alex had, eventually, simply struck a deal with Special Operations that better suited him, but the fact that Alex had realised he couldn’t easily escape MI6’s clutches didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t want to. Perhaps he was dwelling on that. Perhaps, now the tension had broken and he could think properly, coming to the same conclusion as Yassen as to how long he was likely to survive if he stuck around. 

There was a very long beat of silence.

“Yeah, all right,” Alex said at last. “When and where do you want to meet?”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to anyone who spotted the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea reference. I just couldn't resist.
> 
> The artwork is by the lovely and talented [Morfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morfox/pseuds/Morfox)!
> 
> There is an in-progress sequel to this work: [One Year](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545992/chapters/67370614).


End file.
